Alice moaned “No” through her gag and shook her head so weakly that her chains barely rattled. The sight stung Martin and at the same time confirmed Carver’s cruelty. If the other men noticed Alice’s delirious denial, they gave no indication.
Then Carver turned back to face Martin. “So, what do you think, Grey?” he asked. “How many more lashes should that whore get for what she did to me?”
Martin’s knees began to feel weak again, and his right hand, the hand clutching the cowskin, began to tremble. He couldn’t believe that this was happening. He couldn’t believe that they actually wanted him to hurt Alice again.
“Come on, Grey.” Carver’s lips were taut with the effort to hold back a smirk. “How many more? Ten? Twenty? Thirty? Give me a number.”
Martin wanted to shout out at the top of his lungs, None! She’s had enough! Even better, he wanted to strangle Carver with the whip. But all he could do was shake his head and feign confusion. “I don’t know. How do you decide these things?”
“We don’t,” Oscar said, frowning wearily at Carver. “The doctor decides all punishments. And as Mr. Lewis is well aware, it has already been decided.” Oscar turned to the group’s leader. “Your instructions were fifty lashes in total, correct?”
Dr. Kasim nodded. “Yes. So the girl is to receive twenty-five more.”
Martin’s heart stopped. Twenty-five more lashes? The idea was unthinkable. He glanced at Damon and at the other men, hoping to see any sign of sympathy for the girl. Hoping to spot someone who might side with him if he dared speak up. But all Martin found were cold stares, the faces of men whose humanity had been eroded away by hatred. They were indifferent to Alice’s suffering through the first beating, and just as indifferent to the fact that twenty-five more lashes would almost certainly kill her.
“Let’s get on with it,” Dr. Kasim grumbled. “Then we can get back and have a little celebration in Martin’s honor.”
While the other men murmured their agreement, Martin felt something give way inside him. It was as if the mental dam that he had formed to hold back his emotions had suddenly cracked a leak. He couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t hurt Alice again. And no amount of logic or rationalization regarding the greater good could change that physical reality. At that instant Martin just knew that he no longer had it in him.
But he had to do something. He couldn’t just refuse. That was too risky. For all he knew, doubling the slave’s punishment was a test. A regular part of the initiation designed to catch the initiate with his guard down.
The solution came easily to Martin, because there was no solution. His only choice was to tell the truth. He’d just tell Dr. Kasim that he couldn’t bring himself to hurt Alice again. What Dr. Kasim’s and the other men’s reactions would be, he wasn’t sure. More than likely they’d see his perceived weakness as a threat, but there was another possibility. Maybe, just maybe, they’d lay the blame on his fledgling status at Forty Acres. Like when he lost his cool in the mine: Damon did chastise him, but he let it slide as a rookie move. Maybe it would be the same now in the barn. Maybe there was an unspoken grace period that could save his life. Maybe. But deep down, Martin knew this was bullshit. Deep down, he could still hear Damon’s last piece of advice, echoing. Advice that now sounded more like a warning. Be strong. Be strong.
The truth was, after whipping a helpless girl to within an inch of her life, Martin Grey was all out of strong.
Martin took a nervous breath, then turned to face Dr. Kasim. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get a word out, the cowskin was snatched from his hand.
Martin turned and saw something that froze him—Carver, still bare-chested, cowskin in hand, taking practice swings at the thin air. The loud whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of the whip reverberated through the rafters. Carver took a final swing, then gave the cowskin handle an upward jerk, causing the frilled tip to flip backward. Carver caught the tip with expert ease, then turned and winked at Martin. “My turn.”
Realization screamed in Martin’s head. He’d had it all wrong. His initiation truly was over. They didn’t want him to give Alice twenty-five more lashes. That job went to Carver. Carver was the one offended, supposedly, so Carver got to mete out the punishment. It all made terrifying sense. And it chilled Martin to the core.
Martin could only stand there watching as Carver crossed the threshold into the stall.
When Alice glanced back and saw Carver looming with the cowskin, she found new energy. She writhed and struggled desperately, screaming into her gag.
Carver seemed fueled by the sight. He swished the whip in the dirt between him and Alice, teasing out the moment before the first strike.
As much as Martin did not want to swing the whip himself, he also didn’t want to watch Carver whip Alice to death. But he couldn’t look away because he himself was being watched. From the moment Carver stepped into the stall with Alice, Martin noticed that he was receiving glances from several of the men, including Dr. Kasim and Oscar. Was this part of the initiation then? Were they expecting him to crack?
Martin felt a hand on his arm. It was Damon. “You okay?”
Martin nodded stiffly. “Fine. I’m fine.”
Damon leaned closer and whispered, “Then wipe that look off your face.”
So, that was it. Martin wasn’t aware of any “look,” but the deluge of emotions that he was experiencing at that moment, everything from horror to sorrow, was nearly impossible to stem. Martin redoubled his focus. He slowed his breathing, clamped down on his jaw, and turned his face to stone.
The muscles in Carver’s back and arm bulged as he unleashed the first strike. The crack of leather cutting flesh filled the barn, muffling Alice’s scream.
Martin flinched.
Oscar shouted, “One!”
CHAPTER 65
Martin couldn’t watch and he couldn’t shut his eyes, so he focused on a dark knot in one of the wood planks that made up the stall’s rear wall. To anyone watching he would appear to be riveted to the brutality before him, but only the blur of the whip invaded his peripheral vision. The sharp report of the striking weapon was impossible to ignore. Martin flinched at each crack and could only hope that no one noticed. After the first few lashes from Carver, he heard not a scream or a whimper from Alice, and this terrified him.
“Twenty-five,” Oscar called out. “That’s it.”
Carver coiled the cowskin whip into a loose loop, then swiped the back of his hand across his moist brow. His chest heaved as his exerted breathing settled back to normal. The deed was done. Carver gave his handiwork a final, satisfied glance, then emerged from the stall.
The instant Carver cleared the doorway, Oscar entered and inspected the limp, blood-soaked body. Careful to avoid staining his suit, Oscar pressed two fingers to Alice’s carotid artery. After a brief pause, he repositioned his fingers. Another pause, then he moved his fingers again.
Martin observed these post-whipping activities through a dazed fog. He felt numb, shell-shocked. And at that instant, as he watched Oscar search Alice’s neck for a pulse, his breathing ceased. The other men around him, even the barn, seemed to fade from perception. Every atom of Martin’s being was focused on Oscar’s face, desperate to see a sign, any sign. Please let her be alive, Martin begged the universe. Please!
Forsaking Alice’s carotid, Oscar lifted his two fingers to Alice’s right temple and pressed firmly. There was a pause that seemed to go on for an eternity. Finally, Oscar’s detached features revealed a brief, indecipherable frown. Martin had to wait for Oscar to reemerge from the stall and move to Dr. Kasim’s side before learning Alice’s fate.
“She’s alive,” Oscar said to the doctor with the bend of surprise in his voice. “Barely, but definitely alive.”
Martin’s lungs released and he had to clench his diaphragm to avoid sighing aloud. Alice’s raw open wounds were critical, he knew that, but she was alive. If she could hang on just two more days, long enough for Martin to get home and conta
ct the authorities, then she could, she might— These desperate hopes were shattered prematurely by what Dr. Kasim said next.
“Leave the girl where she is.” The doctor appeared neither pleased nor displeased with the report of Alice’s survival. “If she’s still breathing in the morning, have her wounds dressed and transfer her to the mine.”
Martin felt a sustained plummeting sensation, as if a trapdoor had been sprung open beneath his soul. His eyes fell to the bottom of the stall. To the droplets of blood that trickled steadily from Alice’s toes into the stained soil beneath her. A red, muddy stain that grew larger by the minute. Drip, drip, drip. Alice’s life leaking away.
It was clear to Martin that without proper care the sad, sweet girl with strawberry-blond hair would never be able to survive her injuries an entire night.
Dr. Kasim had just given Alice a death sentence.
CHAPTER 66
It’s called sorghum beer,” Dr. Kasim said. “It’s an African beer. Home-brewed.”
“Yeah, well, it looks like puke,” Tobias said. “Kind of smells like puke too.”
The men laughed, Martin along with them, but there was no levity in his heart. His thoughts were still in the barn, still with Alice. The image of her hanging by her shackled wrists, alone in the dark, dying, was as vivid as the cackling men seated beside him.
After leaving the barn and poor Alice to her fate, the men retired to Dr. Kasim’s library to celebrate Martin’s initiation with a drink. They were all settled in armchairs around the fireplace. Dr. Kasim, tall in his high-back leather throne that only looked like a chair, was the center of attention as usual. Martin took notice that Oscar was seated with the group as well. During the last gathering inside the library, Oscar served guard duty by the door, but this time he sat directly beside Dr. Kasim. With his legs crossed and his hands folded, Oscar, like a faithful pet, appeared quite content just to be at his master’s side.
At the very center of the group, atop a low coffee table, rested an old African wooden bowl. About the size of a punch bowl, the wood was dark grained and its exterior was decorated with a simple hand-carved geometric pattern.
Inside the bowl was a surprise for the group from Dr. Kasim—a pale yellow, milky substance flecked with black and tan grain pellets. Dr. Kasim called the concoction a traditional African drink, but the scowling faces around the table seemed to side with Tobias’s assessment. The stuff looked foul.
Even Martin found himself wrenched from thoughts of Alice when the African brew’s sour odor reached his nostrils.
Dr. Kasim, unsurprised and undeterred by the group’s initial repulsion, just smiled patiently. “I had it brewed specially, right here in my kitchen, from a very old recipe. Just for this evening.” Then his smile vanished. “I’d be greatly disappointed if each of you didn’t at least try it.”
The men grew tense with dread. Disappointing the old man was clearly not an option.
Dr. Kasim’s small smile resurfaced as he scanned reluctant faces. “So, who’s first?”
Martin was surprised to see Carver’s hand go up, but he wasn’t surprised when, instead of volunteering, Carver straightened his arm and pointed a finger at him. “Grey should go first. I mean, it’s his big night, right?”
Desperate to escape being the first guinea pig, the other men sided with Carver. Even Oscar pivoted his head to Dr. Kasim and said, “Mr. Lewis does make a good point, sir.”
Dr. Kasim acknowledged the consensus with a nod, but as he turned to Martin, Martin beat him to the punch.
“It would be my pleasure,” Martin said.
Everyone looked impressed, even Carver.
Martin just wanted to keep things moving. He was desperate for this nightmarish evening to end so that he could retreat to the privacy of his room. Beneath his forced smiles, Martin’s emotions were in a maelstrom and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold it together.
Dr. Kasim rewarded Martin’s pluck with a pleased smile, then gestured to a gourd ladle resting beside the wooden bowl. The ladle was just as old as the bowl, but the worn native carvings on the handle were distinctly different.
“Please enjoy, brother,” Dr. Kasim said.
Martin picked up the ladle and dipped it into the milky beer. The men watched with pursed faces as he lifted it to his mouth and took a sip.
The consistency was thick like mucus and gritty. The flavor was sour yet surprisingly fruity. Martin swallowed. The aftertaste was awful. A rancid paste coated the inside of his mouth and sent his salivary glands into overdrive, causing his face to screw up in utter disgust.
The men cracked up at the sight. Even Dr. Kasim couldn’t resist a little laugh.
“Oh, come on, son,” Solomon said between chuckles, “it can’t taste all that bad.”
“It’s worse,” Martin said, still unable to relax his clenched face. “Much worse.”
The men laughed again. Dr. Kasim nodded to Martin as if to say, Good job, then said aloud, “Now you pick who goes next.”
The laughter retreated as Martin scanned the circle of men. His weighing stares were merely a pretense. He already knew whom he was going to select. Martin extended the ladle to Carver. “Drink up,” he said with a smile.
Carver seemed to feed off the new guy’s push-back. He returned Martin’s smile, then snatched the ladle, dipped it deep into the beer, and drank. Not just a sip, as Martin had done. Carver tossed his head back and gulped down every last drop in the ladle.
There were sounds of astonishment from the men as Carver strained to keep the toxic stuff down. His jaw tightened, his eyes squeezed, his head cocked side to side, until finally Carver relaxed and cracked his familiar crooked smile. “Not bad.”
A burst of laughter and applause. Carver gloated as he watched Martin join in on the accolades.
None of the remaining men even came close to matching Carver’s feat. Tobias, the biggest man in the group, sheepishly ventured only the tiniest sip. Solomon’s brief taste was on par with Martin’s, just enough to repulse him without making him sick. Damon, smartly, swallowed so fast that he barely had time to taste it. Kwame, accustomed to a gentle, all-natural diet, suffered the worst reaction. After only a sip the ad exec had to clamp both hands over his mouth to keep from retching the foul liquid back into the bowl.
When the gourd ladle reached Oscar, Martin and the others watched carefully. They were all eager to see the pungent ale put a dent in Dr. Kasim’s lieutenant’s titanium facade.
They were all disappointed.
Oscar’s reaction to the drink was as calm and measured as the man himself. He simply dipped, sipped, and swallowed. No sour face, no gagging, no commentary, nothing. It was as if he had taken a cool sip of water.
Dr. Kasim received the ladle last. The men settled into silence and waited for their leader to partake.
Leaning on his staff, Dr. Kasim tilted forward in his seat and filled the ladle with the milky beer. He raised it to his mouth, but instead of drinking, he took a long sniff. “Oh, it’s horrible,” the doctor said, recoiling in disgust. “How could any of you drink this swill?” He flung the ladle into the bowl, splashing beer onto the table and floor.
As Dr. Kasim eased back into his seat, Martin gaped in utter confusion. What the hell was going on? Damon, Carver, Solomon, Tobias, and Kwame were also staring baffled at the doctor. Only Oscar appeared to be unrattled by the moment. He just sat there shaking his head, wearing an odd expression. He almost looked amused.
Then it struck Martin. The men had warned him about Dr. Kasim’s quirky sense of humor. Was it possible? Could this all be a joke?
As if he could hear Martin’s thoughts, Dr. Kasim broke out in a sudden burst of hearty laughter. He shrugged at the group and said, “You were all perfectly free to say no.”
The men groaned and sighed and shook their heads in disbelief. Martin couldn’t believe it either. It was just a joke. A prank.
Tobias pointed an accusing finger at Oscar. “Hey, did you know about this
?”
Oscar frowned. “If I did, do you think that I would actually have drunk it?”
“What is that crap, anyway?” Kwame said, scowling at the bowl as if it were an old enemy. “Is that really a traditional African beer?”
“Of course,” Dr. Kasim said, his mouth turned downward, “and I still wouldn’t touch the stuff. You know, some of our African brothers eat monkey meat. Me, I prefer steak.”
All the men laughed.
“Hey, Martin,” Damon said, “now that you’ve been victimized by one of the old man’s jokes, you’re truly one of us.”
Everyone nodded in agreement, including Dr. Kasim. “Damon’s right,” the doctor said to Martin. “This was an amusing way to welcome you into the fold. But there’s more to it.” Dr. Kasim turned to address the other men and gestured toward the bowl of African beer. “Some black folks still drink that crap, just for the sake of maintaining a pointless tradition. As black men you must never forget this. Tradition is your enemy. Tradition is for the weak and the poor to make them feel like they have something. Sure, there are a few good traditions, like a man caring for and protecting his family. Like a wife standing by her husband. But most traditions are shackles, ignorant, primitive beliefs that do nothing but hold you back. You think the white puppeteers who run this world give a damn about traditions? They trample on tradition. So, how do you tell the useful traditions from the nonsense? If it’s hurting you and not helping you,” he gestured to the beer again, “or if it’s making you sick to your stomach, you should probably spit it out.”
Martin watched the men acknowledge Dr. Kasim’s lesson with earnest nods and murmurs. Then he remembered that he too was now one of the doctor’s acolytes. Martin put on a smile and forced a nod, hoping that the gathering was finally nearing an end.
Dr. Kasim reclined in his chair and said with a smile, “Now, how would you gentlemen like some real beer?”
“Please,” Tobias begged.
Forty Acres: A Thriller Page 24
